Gospel Story Finder

The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cooling when Cal Fredricks came over to our camp. My father was sitting next to our tent. They shook hands, and then Cal took his wallet from his back pocket and began peeling off greenbacks.
“Never seen anything like what you and the Scot did,” he exhaled the words of emphasis. “Nothing like it. It was worth the hundred. There’s a dance and a party a little later. You’re sort of the guest of honor. Your wife and daughter are welcome to come up to the house to clean up.” He turned and walked away. “What a contest. Never seen anything like it.”
My father put the money into a small box with the rest of our earnings and then put the box under the seat of our truck and locked the door.
The dance was a wild foot-stompin’, hootin’, Montana-sheep-man dance with plenty of fiddle players, fried chicken and, in our honor, homemade root beer. It was held on a wood platform on the edge of the grass and sagebrush prairie. The moon was monstrous and bright yellow that night; hanging low against the rolling hill it threw almost more light than the lanterns hung from poles around the platforms. I remember seeing the silhouette of a flock of birds fly across the moon. The air was cool, still edged with winter and smelling of the rain, cool enough to make you want to keep dancing for most of the night.
To watch my father you would never have guessed he’d sheared 330 sheep that day. At about midnight, with the help of Cal’s son, I threw an entire carton of firecrackers onto the floor, just to quicken the pace of things a little. My father didn’t even ask any questions. He took one look at me and told me to go to bed and added that we’d be having a pretty serious discussion in the morning. I fell asleep with the music of the violins and the shouts of the dancers.
“Bobby.” My father was shaking me. “Wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was still dark. My father was holding a lantern in his hand.
“Someone broke into the truck. Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Did they get the money?”
My father nodded as he turned and walked out of the tent.
“Did you notice the truck when you came back?” he asked when I came out of the tent. I shook my head again. All of our money had been in the truck, all of it.
I looked down at my bare feet. “Went straight to bed,” I whispered.
My father hung his head for a few seconds and took a deep breath.
“I’ll go up to the house and call the sheriff.”
The money was never found. The next morning my mother came out of the tent carrying another small bag. She handed it to my father. He opened it and pulled a handful of money from it.
“This is our tithing money,” he whispered.
She nodded. “It’ll get us home, maybe buy seed for the farm. We can pay it back.” She had her head down. “It’s all we have.”
My father looked down for a few seconds and then he looked up grinning. “Bedbugs with green paint on their backs. Come on, there’s something we need to do.” He started toward the truck. “Won’t take long.”
We drove down into Helena where my father stopped the truck in front of a bank. He leaned on the steering wheel.
“I’m going to get a check for this money,” he said. “And then I’m going to send it to Bishop Anderson. It’s not our money to decide what to do with.”
I thought my father had lost his main drive bearing. He had to be crazy, sending the only money we had back to the bishop.
What I remembered most about the rest of the summer was the terrible feeling of being stranded 700 miles from home. Work was hard to get. The shearing season was over. All the big sheep operations had finished their shearing. We took anything. We made a few dollars helping Cal bag his wool and load it for market. My mother took a job in Jack’s Dirt Cheap World Famous Truckstop and Post Office as a cook. Kathey and I washed dishes.
My father found plenty of work, but where he had been making over twenty dollars a day shearing, he was only able to make one or two dollars for work that was just as hard.
It was late fall before we were able to make our way back home, and it was several years before I would begin to understand what my father had done.

I’ve gotten lots of great birthday presents in my life, but what I got from my dad on my eighth birthday takes the cake. And it all started when he asked me a single question in a room full of people.
That room was in our church building, and the people filling it were my family members. I had never seen so many of them in church at one time! We were all there to see my cousin Bre get baptized.
As I watched Bre’s parents take pictures of her in her white dress, I started feeling really excited about my own baptism.
I went over to look at the font, thinking about what my special day would be like. Would the water be warm? Would all my family be there? I hoped I would feel the peaceful, clean feeling that I had heard other people tell about. All of these thoughts were tumbling around in my mind when Dad walked over and asked the question that changed everything.
“Chris, who do you want to baptize you?”
Here’s the thing: my dad couldn’t baptize me because he wasn’t a member of the Church.
My mom is a convert, which means she got baptized later in life. But my dad never seemed to want to be baptized, and that made me sad sometimes. I didn’t talk about it very much because I didn’t want to make him feel bad. But this time, I decided to tell him.
“I want you to baptize me. You’re my dad!”
I still remember the look on his face. First he was surprised. Then he looked kind of sad. Then his expression turned thoughtful, as if he were thinking about something important.
“C’mon, buddy. We’ll talk about it later,” he said, wrapping his arm around me as we headed to our seats.
The next day, I stood with my dad again—this time in front of the bishop’s office. It was time for me to meet with the bishop for my baptismal interview. I was pretty nervous, and it seemed like Dad was too. He kept pacing back and forth in front of the office door. After I had my interview, Dad walked right up to the bishop.
“What do I have to do to be able to baptize my son?” he asked.
The bishop froze, right in the middle of his handshake. You should’ve seen the smile that came across his face! He told my dad that he needed to be baptized and receive the Aaronic Priesthood. My dad said that he was finally ready to make these special promises with Heavenly Father.
You can probably guess how this story ends. A month later, I stood in the baptismal font dressed in white. The water was warm. My family was there. Best of all, my dad was standing next to me, ready to baptize me.
I know that lots of kids are still waiting and praying for a family member to get baptized. It’s hard to wait, but we can keep being good examples and never give up hope. Knowing this makes me feel even more grateful for the decision my dad finally made—the decision that gave me the best birthday of my life.

It seemed like any other early school morning for the Pleasant Grove (Utah) High School security guard, until he noticed a group of boys crowded around a small car in the student parking lot. It looked awfully suspicious. They must be trying to break in, he thought. But as he neared the scene to investigate, he recognized the boys and knew they were good guys, even though they were searching for a way to break into the empty car. The owner of the car had left the radio blaring, and the boys were trying to get in to turn it off.
Why did these popular guys take the time to rescue the little car? That Volkswagen belonged to 17-year-old Shellee Lundgren, a varsity stunt cheerleader.
Why had she left her radio on? Wouldn’t the loud music have been too much to overlook? Not for Shellee—she’s deaf. But even so, sometimes she likes to feel the vibrations of the music on the radio.
It may not be common for a cheerleader to be deaf, but with hard work and the support of others, Shellee is able to accomplish most everything she wants to. And even though Shellee’s hearing loss is not typical of most teenagers, she sure is. Without talking to her, you’d never even guess she has a hearing disability. She’s usually with friends or talking on the phone, she dates, and her long hair covers the hearing aid she wears behind her left ear. She reads lips, so she can usually understand you, but it can be hard to understand her until you get used to the way she talks. But what strikes you most about her is that she hasn’t let her hearing problem slow her down. She’s outgoing and not afraid to try whatever she wants to do. Her philosophy is “Never say I can’t.”
Shellee wanted to dance, so in grade school she started dance and gymnastics classes. She has been competing and performing ever since. Someone signals Shellee when to begin, and then she counts through the rest of the piece. As a child, oftentimes she was more on beat than the rest of the children because she counted. “Most judges never even know I’m deaf,” she says.
Because Shellee is always trying, people are drawn to her. For example, in ninth grade Shellee wanted to be a cheerleader. When it came time for tryout practices, she went but struggled trying to understand all the instructions. Luckily, her bubbly personality and eagerness to learn won her the admiration of the other girls and one varsity cheerleader in particular.
Michelle Shoell, then a junior, took Shellee home with her every night that week to practice with her. Shellee could do the moves; she just needed help combining the moves with the words. “She is one of the most sparkling people I’ve ever met,” Michelle says, “and I wanted to see her make it.”
Before the final tryouts, Michelle even told the coach, “I don’t really care if I make it as long as Shellee does.” Both girls made the squad.
In no way is this kindness towards Shellee a one-way street. Shellee makes it easy to become her friend. Melissa Despain, a former fellow cheerleader, says when she first met Shellee she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to communicate. “But she was really nice about it,” she says. Shellee is more than willing to talk slower, repeat herself, and she always smiles to encourage you to continue trying.
Raychellene Jasper, Shellee’s best friend and fellow cheerleader, can hear, and the two have been known to be inseparable. Raychellene helps Shellee understand all the instructions at their practices. Raychellene says, “She makes me feel unique and special and like I’m needed and wanted. It’s a mutual dependency.”
Shellee is a friend as well as an example. “A lot of people didn’t think I could make the cheerleading team,” Shellee says. But when she did, some kids took it to heart. They thought, If she did it, maybe I could too.
It may seem like Shellee’s got it made. Being deaf hasn’t kept her from dancing, doing well in school, or making friends. However, it has made the gospel harder for her to understand than it is for most teenagers.
Only in the last year has Shellee attended a deaf ward, so until then she had to fend for herself at church. “I never knew how much she was actually getting,” says Janell Frost, one of Shellee’s Primary and Young Women teachers.
Fortunately, Pleasant Grove High School has a deaf seminary teacher whose class Shellee can attend. “Seminary has helped me a lot,” she says. “For example, I didn’t know I would live again after I die. I was so happy because then I knew I would see Grandma again.” Shellee hadn’t been able to grasp that concept until then, although she has always been an active member of the Church.
Reading the scriptures is hard for Shellee because of the vocabulary. She doesn’t recognize words from having heard them in conversation; she has to learn each word individually by looking it up. Words like nevertheless are hard enough to understand when you’ve heard other people use them. How is a deaf person to understand it without help?
Shellee’s seminary teacher is helping to solve this problem with drawings. She has her students draw pictures in their scriptures that go along with the stories so they can have a better idea of what is going on. “It helps a lot,” Shellee says.
In part, Shellee wants to go on a mission because she has had a difficult time understanding the gospel principles. “I want to go on a deaf mission so I can learn more. I want to help those who are lost.”
Whether they are obvious or not, we all have our barriers to overcome—even smart, outgoing, cheerleaders who accidentally leave their radios blaring. But when we work together and keep on trying, those barriers come crumbling down.

“Once we were in a distant stake for conference. We came to the unpretentious home of the stake president at mid-day Saturday. We knocked at the door, and it was opened by a sweet mother with a child in her arms. She was the type of mother who did not know there were maids and servants. She was not an artist’s model, nor a society woman. Her hair was dressed neatly; her clothes were modest, tastefully selected; her face was smiling; and though young, she showed the rare combination of maturity of experience and the joys of purposeful living.
“The house was small. The all-purpose room into which we were welcomed was crowded and in its center were a long table and many chairs. We freshened up in the small bedroom assigned to us, made available by ‘farming out’ to the neighbors some of the children, and we returned to this living room. She had been very busy in the kitchen. Her husband, the stake president, soon returned from his day’s labors and made us welcome and proudly introduced us to all of the children as they returned from their chores and play.
“Almost like magic the supper was ready, for ‘many hands make light work,’ and these numerous hands were deft and experienced ones. Every child gave evidence of having been taught responsibility. Each had certain duties. One child had quickly spread a tablecloth; another placed the knives and forks and spoons; and another covered them with the large plates turned upside down. (The dishes were inexpensive.) Next came large pitchers of creamy milk, high piles of sliced homemade bread, a bowl at each place, a dish of fruit from storage, and a plate of cheese.
“One child placed the chairs with backs to the table, and without confusion, we all knelt at the chairs facing the table. One young son was called on to lead in family prayer. It was extemporaneous, and he pleaded with the Lord to bless the family and their schoolwork, and the missionaries, and the bishop. He prayed for us who had come to hold conference that we would ‘preach good,’ for his father in his church responsibilities, for all the children that ‘they would be good, and kind to each other,’ and for the little cold shivering lambs being born in the lambing sheds on the hill this wintry night.
“A very little one said the blessing on the food, and thirteen plates were turned up and thirteen bowls filled, and supper proceeded. No apologies were offered for the meal, the home, the children, or the general situation. The conversation was constructive and pleasant. The children were well-behaved. These parents met every situation with calm dignity and poise.
“In these days of limited families, or childless ones, when homes often have only one or two selfish and often pampered children, homes of luxury with servants, broken homes where life moves outside the home, it was most refreshing to sit with a large family where interdependence and love and harmony were visible and where children were growing up in unselfishness. So content and comfortable were we in the heart of this sweet simplicity and wholesomeness that we gave no thought to the unmatched chairs, the worn rug, the inexpensive curtains, the numbers of souls that were to occupy the few rooms available.”

Several weeks later, I was in Penns Grove, New Jersey, with my first companion, Elder Rumsey. We had been teaching an older, single woman who always had the most unusual concerns, worries they don’t teach you about in the MTC. For instance, she wondered that if men changed and corrupted the Bible as they translated it, couldn’t Joseph Smith have done the same thing with the Book of Mormon? Her questions always kept us on our toes.
One day, she had been reading toward the end of 2 Nephi when she became disturbed by some of Nephi’s statements. In 2 Nephi 30:18 and 31:1 [2 Ne. 30:18; 2 Ne. 31:1], she had noticed Nephi had used phrases like “my sayings” and “my prophesying.” To our investigator, it sounded like Nephi was taking the credit for the marvelous things he had written instead of acknowledging that the Lord had inspired him. She declared that Nephi, therefore, must not be a true prophet.
“Let’s look at the end of 2 Nephi,” I said.
If you had asked me right then what was at the end of 2 Nephi, I couldn’t have told you. I had read 2 Nephi 33, of course, but not in several weeks, and I certainly hadn’t memorized any verses from it. I stepped out on a limb, but with amazing confidence. I wasn’t the least bit afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find an answer to our investigator’s problem. I know it was the Spirit that caused me to suggest looking there because I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it on my own.
As soon as we turned to chapter 33, a verse I had previously marked caught my attention. I read aloud the second half of verse 10. [2 Ne. 33:10]
“And if ye shall believe in Christ ye will believe in these words, for they are the words of Christ, and he hath given them unto me.”
There! Pow! Nephi gave credit to the Lord exactly as our investigator thought he should.
Doctrine and Covenants 84:85 [D&C 84:85] sayss to “treasure up in your minds continually the words of life, and it shall be given you in the very hour that portion that shall be meted unto every man.”
I know that through my study of the scriptures the Lord was able to bless me with the perfect answer to our investigator’s question. That day I was able to say, with Nephi, that my words were “the words of Christ, and he hath given them unto me.”

At least I thought I would have peace. Instead, I faced insults and rejection. Slanderous speculations circulated about my reasons for leaving the convent. Frustrated and filled with feelings of worthlessness, I became confused and decided on the most deplorable course of action—taking my own life.
On 21 November 1995 I wandered down a street, with thoughts of suicide filling my mind and tears running down my cheeks, when I happened upon a church building. Trying to keep my tears private and find some relief from my pain, I entered the building. Inside, I came upon a bulletin board. I was surprised to see a friendly and warm illustration of the Savior, accompanied by words so simple and understandable that I was instantly captivated. It was the Christ I had been searching for. Without realizing it, I had stopped weeping.
A few minutes later a kind woman asked if she could help. Not knowing what to say, I blurted out, “What is this church about?” She started to explain, and suddenly tears came to my eyes again. I told her, embarrassed, that I needed a friend. At that moment her husband joined us, and I told them of my sorrow. They said they knew a Friend who had all the answers—Jesus Christ—and they invited me to learn more about Him and our Heavenly Father’s plan. Without hesitation, I agreed.
For 10 days I met with this loving and kind missionary couple. They never pressured me, just shared their testimonies and taught me. They also shared one of the greatest gifts we can receive—the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I read it, studied it, and put Moroni’s promise to the test (see Moro. 10:3–5). The Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. What had been mysteries to me became clear. I knew who the Lord was and how to serve Him. Two sister missionaries taught me the missionary discussions, and I was baptized on 3 December 1995.

Fourteen-year-old Ripsy Bandurian thought she was going to the LDS church with her English teacher in Yerevin, Armenia, to learn English from an American couple. But when she got there, she learned much more than their language.
“When I met the missionaries they said to me, ‘We love you. What is your name?’ That sounded good to me.”
Ripsy and her teacher, Sister Nara, ended up taking the discussions and attending church together. Sister Nara was soon baptized, but Ripsy had to wait for her parents’ permission. In the meantime, she read all the LDS literature she could get her hands on, and translated into Russian the discussions the missionaries were giving. Most of the people she translated for were baptized.
Finally, after more than a year, her parents gave her permission to be baptized. Ripsy says it was one of the happiest days of her life. Since then, she has continued translating in English, Armenian, and Russian. She gets the highest marks in school, is a leader in the local Young Women’s program, and helps her mother, who is a pediatrician, with sick children in the hospital. Ripsy would eventually like to be a doctor too.

The last story is about Christina (not her real name), who had been baptized and sealed to her family when she was a young girl, but somewhere along the way the family stopped living the gospel. Now she was in her late teens, and she had been making some wrong choices and was very unhappy.
One day I gave her a Personal Progress book and said, “This book will help you incorporate qualities of Christ in your life so you can make the changes you desire. I invite you to begin to work in your book today and then bring it with you to the youth fireside tonight and share with me what you have learned.” That night she said with tears in her eyes, “Today I started my personal progress.” She has written to me a few times since that day. She began going back to Sunday meetings, Mutual, and seminary. In a couple of weeks her sister and mother attended church with her. Later the father joined them, and now the entire family has been back to the temple together.

Walt was the new kid at school that year. He wasn’t in any of my classes; I met him out at our first freshman football practice. He seemed like a decent enough guy—a little on the quiet side, though.
I was the exact opposite—in the worst way. I talked long and loud with generous helpings of cussing. But, despite our differences, I put up with Walt because he was such a good football player. When it came to playing football, Walt was definitely all action and no talk.
I guess Walt had only two problems fitting in with the rest of us: he was the only Mormon on the team, and he was also the only kid who never, ever swore.
By the end of our freshman year, though, most everybody was used to Walt and his quiet, cussless ways. Even though he looked like us and hung around with us, when he opened his mouth—or didn’t open his mouth—he was completely different from us.
Walt’s “sissy” vocabulary didn’t bother me much the first couple of years I knew him. We became pretty good buddies and spent lots of time together talking about football, girls, school, and religion—Walt was always talking about his church. Anyway, in all our times together, I never heard Walt swear—even when he had every reason to.
At the beginning of our junior year, I decided it was my “duty” to reform Walt by “improving” his vocabulary. It was our first year on the varsity—he was a defensive back, I was an offensive lineman—and I figured if he didn’t learn to cuss, he’d never fit in with the rest of the varsity squad.
“Look, Wally,” I told him one night after twice-a-days practice, “I’m gonna make you swear—just once—if it’s the last thing I do this year.”
“Well,” he grinned, “I guess that’ll be the last thing you’ll do, because I don’t swear.”
I had my work cut out for me. I mean, here was a guy who said, “excuse me” every time he burped—even in the locker room. It was hard to believe that Walt didn’t swear; he surely had plenty of cussing examples around him. The air in the locker room and football field was always filled with vivid streaks of blue language. I knew that Walt had heard everything there was to hear, but he still never used anything stronger than, “Gee whiz, darn, or doggone it.”
So, I had to start at the beginning. One afternoon before practice, I handed Walt a vocabulary list. “Here, Walt. This is a list of words I want you to use today at practice. If you use them often enough, you’ll finally get the hang of it, and before you know it, you’ll be cussing like an old pro.”
He looked over my list for a minute but didn’t say a word.
I pointed to the first word. “This one—this is a great one. Use it when you drop a pass or miss a tackle. You’ll really feel much better if you do. And the next few are good when somebody takes a cheap shot at you. Use the last two anytime the ref makes a bad call.”
Walt wadded up my list and tossed it in his locker. “Aw, c’mon, Wally,” I pleaded. “Give it a chance. You’ve got to release all those pent-up emotions. The way you’re going, you’ll have ulcers before you’re 18.”
Out at practice that afternoon, Walt dropped a pass, missed three tackles during a scrimmage, and was the victim of one of my “friendly” cheap shots. I hit him right in the back, and when I helped him up, waiting to hear him cut loose with one of his new words, all he muttered was a feisty “Darn!” That was it.
I realized that I needed more help, so I recruited a few other guys to work on Walt. We tried everything: booby trapped his locker, pinched him in pile-ups, snapped him with towels, but we were lucky to even get a “doggone it” out of him. As a matter of fact, the harder we tried, the worse Walt got. It finally got so bad that Walt even quit using “darn” and just responded with “ouch” to all our persecutions.
“Okay, Walt,” I said to him one afternoon as we sat lacing up our cleats before practice, “I guess you win. No swearing, right? But what about dirty jokes? You know any?”
“Oh, you bet I do,” he answered. “I’ll tell you one today after practice.”
After wind sprints that evening, before he even got off the field, I gathered our buddies around and announced, “Hey, you guys, listen to this. Walt’s got a dirty joke to tell us.”
“Yeah, right,” said one player. “Walt? A dirty joke? You gotta be kidding.”
“Walt wouldn’t know a dirty joke if he heard one,” said another. “This I gotta hear.”
We huddled around Walt, anxious to see the effects of our “reform” efforts. “Gosh, you guys,” he exclaimed, “give me some room, okay?” We all moved back. “Okay,” he said, blushing slightly, “this is it. A white horse fell in a mud puddle.”
“Oh, no, …” we moaned. “You call that a dirty joke?”
“Well, what’d you guys expect?” laughed Walt. “That’s a Mormon dirty joke,” he said, and trotted off to the showers.
The football season progressed, and so did Walt. He terrorized our opponents as much as he mystified us, so we dubbed him “The Stormin’ Mormon.” It was a well-deserved nickname.
It became a team obsession to try to pollute Walt. We weren’t vicious about it; we were just good-naturedly hoping to save Walt from going off the deep end of goody-goodness. We owed it to him. Unfortunately for us, he was just as good-natured and just as determined to remain in the deep end of goodness.
We weren’t making any progress with Walt’s vocabulary, so some guys began telling (that is, trying to tell) dirty jokes to Walt. As soon as they’d begin a story, he’d cover up his ears. If they increased their volume, Walt would sing out loud; the louder the story, the louder Walt sang.
It got to be pretty comical. Two guys would dance around Walt trying to tell him a dirty joke while he sat peacefully in front of his locker with both hands clapped flat over his ears, singing at the top of his voice.
By the end of our season, we’d all but given up on Walt. He was a lost cause as far as swearing went. There was simply no reforming him.
It was even worse our senior year. The younger players looked up to Walt because he was one of the top players on the team, and the rest of us knew there was no changing him, so we all just accepted him for what he was and left it at that. Of course, we didn’t leave him completely alone. There were still a few booby-trapped lockers and assorted pranks. We gave Walt every opportunity, but he never swore. I guess that deep inside, we all knew he wouldn’t swear, and we would have been disappointed if he had.
Things finally got so bad that even I started to give up cussing, especially when I was around Walt. I knew he didn’t like hearing profanity all the time, so I toned down my vocabulary.
After all we’d been through (and Walt had been through a lot more than I had), we were really good friends. We talked often about lots of things, and he continued to plug the Church every chance he got.
It’s kind of funny, but for four years, I was really trying, trying hard, to reform Walt—to help him “see the light” of using a man’s vocabulary. But my bad example, and his good one, eventually backfired on me.
A month after we graduated, Walt was there to witness my baptism. “Gee whiz,” he said after the ceremony, “I didn’t think you’d ever change.”
“Doggone it, Walt,” I replied, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Tommy had been wondering how to get to St. Joseph. “Do you think we could leave for St. Joseph in the morning?” he asked his mother.
“We could if we had someone to go with us,” she replied. “Your father insisted that we should not travel far alone.”
“I heard last week that Brother Morley was going to St. Joseph,” said Tommy. “Do you think we might travel with him?”
“We might,” replied his mother. “We’ll go over to his cabin after supper and ask him.”
Brother Morley was happy to have their company. Two days later, with Tommy driving one wagon and Elija the other, the family left Winter Quarters with Brother Morley and his son.
The first thing they did in St. Joseph was to buy shoes for Elija and Eliza. Then they filled the wagons with corn, wheat, and potatoes.
Betsy looked longingly at some honey that a man had brought to the store from his farm. But there was no money left over to buy honey.
“Never mind,” said Elija. “In Nauvoo we used to harvest wild honey. Maybe on our way home we can find a hollow tree that bees have deserted.”
The second night out from St. Joseph, when Tommy and Elija were scouting around close to their camp, they found a hollow log. It was filled to the brim with honey. The boys had not taken a container with them, so they scraped a little honey onto a piece of tree bark and took it back for their supper. Afterward they returned with two big kettles in which to harvest the honey.
As they began to scoop the honey into the kettles, the boys heard a low growl behind them, and they turned to face a large bear that had also found the honey tree. Dropping their kettles, they raced toward camp, calling for help. In their rush, Tommy stumbled over a log. Elija saw him fall, and he also saw that the bear was not far behind. “Slide under the log, Tommy!” he shouted.
Brother Morley heard the boys’ cries for help. He came running with his rifle, took careful aim, and fired his gun. The bear dropped dead at the side of the log.
“Thank you, Brother Morley,” the boys said gratefully. And Tommy thought how glad he was that his father had insisted they never travel far alone.
The words of his mother echoed in Tommy’s ears: “It is good to know that your father is still taking care of us even though he is far away.”

Another night someone preparing for a dance noticed that hotel waiters were behind schedule replacing tablecloths and refilling saltshakers for the next day. Despite the language barrier, he made it clear that he and his friends would like to help, and soon the chore was completed. “We’re all brothers,” one of the volunteers told the headwaiter. “We should help each other.”
“Brüder (brothers),” the waiter said, nodding his head in agreement, and he smiled as he reached over to shake hands.

I am grateful for people on the earth who love and appreciate little children. A few years ago I found myself late at night on an airplane bulging with passengers going north from Mexico City to Culiacám. The seats in the plane were close together, and every seat was taken, mostly with the gracious people of Mexico. Everywhere inside the plane there were packages and carry-on luggage of all sizes. A young woman came down the aisle with four small children, the oldest of whom appeared to be about four and the youngest a newborn. She was also trying to manage a diaper bag and a stroller and some bags. The children were tired, crying, and fussing. As she found her seat in the airplane, the passengers around her, both men and women, literally sprang to her aid. Soon the children were being lovingly and tenderly comforted and cared for by the other passengers. They were passed from one passenger to another all over the airplane. The result was an airplane full of baby-sitters. The children settled down in the caring arms of those who cradled them and before long went to sleep. Most remarkable was that a few men who were obviously fathers and grandfathers tenderly cradled and caressed the newborn child. The mother was freed from the care of her children most of the flight. The only thing I felt bad about was that no one passed the baby to me! I relearned that appreciation for and thoughtfulness and kindness toward little children are an expression of the Savior’s love for them.

In a small country town lived a boy named Willard. Willard collected everything imaginable. In fact, his room looked like a junkyard. But Willard knew that one day he would build something truly magnificent with all the junk he’d collected.
Willard started keeping all his junk in his room after his parents told him that he couldn’t leave it scattered throughout the house.
In one corner of his room Willard had an assortment of cardboard boxes. The smaller ones were stuffed inside the bigger ones to save space. Dangling from his doorknob were old shoelaces and pieces of string and yarn. Willard had shoe boxes full of different-size wheels from broken toys. Old wagon wheels were propped against the wall. Piled here and there were old inner tubes, Popsicle sticks, bottle caps, milk cartons, stacks of pictures from magazines, crayons, pencils, and all kinds of tape. And on his dresser he had soda cracker boxes piled to the ceiling.
One evening when Willard’s mother tried to get into his room to say good night, she could barely squeeze through the doorway. “Willard,” she said, “this mess is getting to me.”
When his father pushed into the room, he ordered, “Willard! This stuff has to go. You have until the weekend to get your room cleaned out. That’s it!”
Willard didn’t sleep much that night. He couldn’t possibly throw out all his magnificent junk. He knew that the time had come for him to build something truly magnificent.
It took Willard two days to carry all the junk from his room to the backyard. On the third day he started building. First Willard threaded some heavy wire through an old bicycle inner tube and nailed it to a tree. “A truly magnificent basketball hoop,” he said, pleased with himself.
Then he cut shorter pieces of heavy wire and shaped them into small hoops. “A truly magnificent ringtoss,” he murmured.
Next he built a pushcart, using some discarded wagon wheels. He made a seat for it and oiled the wheels. “Truly magnificent,” he said, beaming.
Willard took the tops and bottoms off all his cardboard boxes. He laid them end to end, forming a maze. He crawled through the boxes and pasted his collection of pictures on the inside walls. A truly magnificent fun house, thought Willard.
Willard stacked some milk cartons on a crate, then called it a day.
On the fourth day Willard still had lots to do. He made airplanes and little houses out of his piles of Popsicle sticks. He made kites out of newspapers and used his yarn collection for tails. Finally he built lots of his favorite toy—cracker-box trucks. He cut down one end of each box a little, folded down the flaps to make the cab, and taped the folds in place. He punched holes in the sides of the box, pushed dowels through for axles, snapped on wheels.
On the fifth day Willard put up a sign in his front yard:
WILLARD’S MAGNIFICENT CARNIVAL
ANY GAME OR RIDE—ONLY 5 PRETTY ROCKS
MAGNIFICENT PRIZES
Curious, all the children in the little town came to his carnival. They played ringtoss and basketball and knocked down milk cartons with balls. There was always a line of kids waiting to ride the pushcart.
One girl came out of the fun house and said, “Willard, this is the best fun house I’ve ever been in—it’s not even scary.” One boy said, “Willard, this is great. I have enough rocks to spend the whole day here.”
Willard gave prizes to the game winners. They could choose an airplane, a house, a kite, or a cracker-box truck. Like Willard, their favorite was the cracker-box trucks. “These are really nifty,” they said. Everyone wanted one, even the girls.
After two days of fun and games, Willard was out of prizes. So he asked for everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for coming to my carnival. You may take home anything that you see here.”
Some children took bottle caps, some took boxes, others took wheels and odds and ends until everything was gone. Soon Willard’s backyard was clean and quiet and back to normal.
All during the carnival, Willard’s parents had looked on in amazement. Now his father said, “I’m really proud of Willard for having this carnival. He got rid of all his junk and provided a great time for all the kids in town.”
“He certainly did!” said his mother.
But when they walked into Willard’s room to tell him how proud they were of him, they were stunned. All over the floor, and in every nook and cranny, were boxes and sacks filled to the top with pretty rocks!

Today is the first Sunday of April 1993. Go back with me an even century to this same Temple Square. No, make it an even 101 years. It is April conference of 1892. These grounds are crowded with people. The multitude is the largest ever assembled in this area of the West. There are thousands and thousands of them. All cannot get on the grounds, so large is the number. They are on surrounding streets. Some have climbed telephone poles; others, trees. The occasion is the placing of the capstone of the temple, the great round granite sphere which crowns the highest steeple on the east end. It is a day of celebration. Atop the ball is a bronze figure gilded with gold. The figure represents Moroni—prophet, writer, and compiler of the Book of Mormon. The figure represents the angel spoken of by John the Revelator when he declared with prophetic vision:
“And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people,
“Saying with a loud voice, Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come: and worship him that made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters” (Rev. 14:6–7).
In the presence of that multitude, President Wilford Woodruff touched a switch. The capstone with the angel settled in place. President Woodruff led the multitude in a great and sacred shout: “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna to God and the Lamb!”
There had been nothing before it and there has been nothing just like it since.
The shout was an expression of worship. It was an expression of gratitude. This was an unequaled day of thanksgiving. This was a day of which these people had dreamed for almost forty years. You have heard and read and seen much recently concerning that forty-year struggle.
In July of 1847 Brigham Young had pointed out the location, only four days after the pioneers arrived in the valley. That spot had been marked by Wilford Woodruff. On April 6, 1853, the cornerstones were laid. All of you are familiar with the history of the years that followed—years of effort and heartbreaking disappointment; years of labor in sunshine and storm to bring great blocks of granite from these everlasting hills and to dress that stone, each piece according to a carefully designed pattern; years of unyielding faith in the pursuit of a goal.
These were years during which three other beautiful temples had been erected in this territory—in St. George, in Logan, and in Manti.
But the greatest dream of all centered here on Temple Square. And now by April of 1892 the exterior walls, steeples, and roof had been completed. Small wonder that the people shouted hosanna. A generation and more had passed since the work had commenced. Wilford Woodruff was now eighty-five and President of the Church. Before the vast crowd assembled on that day, Elder Francis M. Lyman made a motion that they now finish the interior and dedicate the temple one year from that day, April 6, 1893, forty years from the day of the laying of the cornerstones.
A mighty shout of approval filled the air.
But it was one thing to say yes in the excitement of the occasion and another to actually accomplish the work. Some with practical minds and substantial experience said it could never be done.
The building was a shell. A mighty work of consecrated effort was commenced to finish the interior.
Floors were laid, partitions set in place, plumbing installed, and electrical lines run. And then came the tremendous finishing work.
Wooden lath by the mile was nailed to the framing. Lime by the ton was slaked to become plaster. Timber was cut, seasoned, sawed, and shaped into magnificently beautiful woodwork.
It must have appeared impossible to get all of this done in a year’s time. But craftsmen who had learned their exacting trades in Europe and the British Isles, and who had come as converts to these valleys of western America, exerted themselves unsparingly. Somehow it happened. Somehow it all came together, and this within a period of twelve months.
Wonder of wonders and miracle of miracles, it was ready on the fifth of April. Leading newspapers of America had sent correspondents. Unstinting was their praise of what they saw. The day before the dedication President Woodruff invited a substantial number of nonmembers of the Church to go through the building. They were moved. They recognized that here was beauty that had come not alone of skill but also of inspiration.

Another event that proved painful was when the Bain Marie had a broken plug. A Bain Marie is a large container filled with water and suspended over a small flame. Pots of various sauces stand in the hot water until they are needed. This way the sauces stay warm, but do not curdle or burn.

“I was working with three French boys when the leak started,” says Peter. “I stuffed my oven cloth over the hole, but the water began seeping through. Desperately I tried to think of the French word for bucket, but couldn’t. The boys stood looking blankly at me. Eventually, when my hand was three quarters burned, one of them found a small saucepan. We had to paddle out of the flooded kitchen.”

I grew up in Centerville, Utah, as the oldest of ten; I had four brothers and five sisters. My family had fifty acres of farmland and orchards to care for. We grew plums, peaches, apricots, cherries, and all kinds of vegetables. Every day at 5:30 A.M. my family sold truckloads of produce at the Salt Lake market. Because we did not have refrigerators back then, we harvested the food the day before selling it.
Weekends were always a challenge because we had to find a way to prepare Monday’s produce without working on Sunday. My father’s rule of thumb was “We will do the best we can, but we will always go to our Sunday meetings.” He also said, “The day we miss our Sunday meetings is the day we sell the farm.”
To avoid working on Sunday, we’d harvest late on Saturday, then pack the food in boxes and put wet towels on top so that it wouldn’t dry out. On Sunday we got up very early and did the necessary chores, like milking the cows, so that we could be at church by 9:00 A.M. Because of my parents’ example, it has been easier to teach my children to keep the Sabbath day holy.

Kari’s family knelt by the couch for family prayer. Everyone reverently folded their arms. Papa asked Kari’s little sister, Liv, to pray.
“Don’t forget to thank Heavenly Father for our many blessings,” Papa reminded her.
“And don’t forget to pray for Erik,” Mama added. Mama always reminded them to pray for Erik.
Erik was Kari’s older brother. Before he left for university, he and Kari were best friends. She really missed all the fun things they used to do together.
Then a few months ago, Erik told Mama and Papa that he didn’t want to be a member of the Church anymore.
Kari and her family were surprised and sad. They started praying for Erik every night. Sometimes they prayed that he would feel the Holy Ghost and want to go back to church. Papa prayed that Erik’s mind would be clear to make good choices. Mama often prayed that somebody he trusted could help him find the right path. After all of their prayers, Kari couldn’t help feeling a little angry. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father brought Erik back to church?
Finally, just as Liv had opened her mouth to pray, Kari couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Why hasn’t Heavenly Father answered our prayers?” she blurted out. Everyone looked at Kari in surprise, but she was too upset to care. For a minute nobody said anything.
“Kari,” said Papa, “when you got home from school today, did you put your backpack away?”
“Huh?” Kari asked, confused. What did her backpack have to do with anything? She glanced at the front door and saw her backpack thrown against the wall instead of hung up beside Liv’s. “No … sorry.”
“Didn’t Mama remind you to hang it up?”
“Yes,” Kari answered. She looked down at her knees.
“Doesn’t Mama often remind you to hang up your backpack?”
“Yes,” Kari muttered. She still didn’t know what this had to do with anything. Wasn’t Papa taking her question seriously?
“I know that when we pray for Erik, Heavenly Father does answer our prayers—every time. The problem is that Erik may not be listening right now. Erik gets to choose whether he listens to the Holy Ghost, just like you choose whether to listen to Mama about your backpack. But do you think that you will always ignore Mama when she asks you to hang up your backpack?”
“No, I guess not,” said Kari.
“Someday she’ll listen!” Mama said, winking at Kari. Kari smiled.
“So maybe someday Erik will listen too?” Kari asked.
“Absolutely,” said Mama. “Listening to the Holy Ghost is a skill you have to develop. Maybe Erik hasn’t learned that skill yet.” Kari began to feel a little better.
They all bowed their heads while Liv said the prayer. She prayed that Erik would learn to listen to the Holy Ghost. While Liv was praying, Kari felt peaceful and warm. She knew that Heavenly Father was hearing their prayers. As Liv listed some of the ways their family had been blessed, Kari thought of another blessing to add to the list—she understood more about prayer now!
As the prayer ended, Kari knew that Heavenly Father hadn’t forgotten Erik. And Heavenly Father would never forget her either.

Some things I learned by what I did, rather than from someone else’s actions. One Christmas a favorite aunt gave me a book of illustrated stories from the Old Testament. Outside, the weather was cold and the wind was howling. I couldn’t sleep. I waited until everybody else was asleep so that I wouldn’t disturb them, then gathered up my blanket and settled down near the forced-air heat vent and read that book for hours at a time. Before that I hadn’t been much of a reader, but I was entranced by that book. I really developed a love for the scriptures at that young age.

Like many people, I have struggled for much of my life to recognize my self-worth. I have fought weight problems for many years, which have contributed to my negative feelings. Even though I have lost weight and lead a healthy lifestyle now, occasionally I still find myself fighting off those negative thoughts and feelings.
One morning I felt particularly low and was wondering how to make the situation better. I began to pray and ask for Heavenly Father’s help to overcome these feelings of inadequacy. As I prayed, the following scripture came to my mind: “If ye have no hope ye must needs be in despair; and despair cometh because of iniquity” (Moroni 10:22).
Iniquity seemed to be such a serious word, so much so that at first I discounted the thought because I could think of nothing that I had done seriously wrong. However, the thought persisted, so I prayed, as instructed also by Moroni, for Heavenly Father to show me my weakness that I might be made strong (see Ether 12:27).
I found myself remembering three incidents during the previous two days when I had not shown patience with my children. I had put my own moods and needs in front of theirs and had not been sensitive to their feelings. I felt bad and resolved to do better. I apologized to my children and prayed for forgiveness. As soon as I prayed, my feelings of inadequacy were lifted and I was able to feel the peace that had eluded me.
As though a light switch turned on in my mind, I finally understood a simple concept that somehow I had missed all these years. When I have unresolved sin in my life, even if it is small, I give Satan power to influence me. He knows my weaknesses, and he knows what words will “stir me up” and “lead me to destruction” (see D&C 10:22). When it comes right down to it, I don’t hate myself, but Satan does hate me and will use every tactic available to turn me away from the light.
However, when I repent, I rely on the power of Jesus Christ. Because He knows perfectly how to succor me in my weakness (see Alma 7:11–12), His power lifts me up and makes me strong in ways that I can’t be on my own.
Likewise, I will do my best to repent and obey the commandments so the “power of Christ may rest upon me” and I can be filled with peace and love.

While visiting with a young man a few years ago, he told me that when he was twelve, his father, the ward bishop, upon finishing his Aaronic Priesthood interview, said, “Son, I have talked with you as your bishop. Now I want to visit with you as your father. I can honestly tell you that I have never smoked or drunk or touched tea or coffee. And I want you to know how good it makes me feel to be able to say that to you. Now I would like you to covenant with me that when your own son or daughter is twelve years old, you will be able to tell him or her the same thing.” The covenant was made. Just one year after this, this same man, still the bishop, still a prominent dentist, was just finishing his dissertation prior to receiving another doctors degree, this time in education; he went to his medical doctor for a physical and was told he was in perfect health. Yet that night he cancelled all of his appointments for the next day and arranged to take his wife to the temple. On the way he discussed with her many family financial matters. Upon returning home he went into my friend’s bedroom, reminded him of the covenant they had made a year earlier and then told him that if anything should happen to him that he (my friend) was the man of the house and that he should take care of his mother. Concluding, he bore his testimony that he knew Jesus was the Christ and that the Church was led by prophets, and then he left the room. A little later, hearing a scream, my friend rushed to his parents’ room, and finding his father lying on the floor, he administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He heard his dad pronounced dead when the ambulance arrived. As he told me of this experience, tears came to his eyes, and as he looked at his own three-month-old son, whom he held in his arms, he said, “When he is twelve years old, I will be able to tell him that I have never tasted tea or coffee, liquor or tobacco, and how good that makes me feel.”